


lure

by sirenseven



Series: props [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Person Bruce Wayne, Dom Bruce Wayne, Grooming, M/M, Manipulation, Object Insertion, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Behavior, Pseudo-Incest, Sexual Abuse, Sub Tim Drake, Tim Drake is Robin, mild size kink, rape due to power imbalances and kids not being able to consent, rape fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: Tim is upset with him. The pretense of apology is an act Bruce has practiced well.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Bruce Wayne
Series: props [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728181
Comments: 12
Kudos: 168





	lure

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of this may or may not make sense without reading the previous installment, but if you just want pure porn feel free to skip to the fourth/last section. Once again, everything here is very bad and wrong and you should double check the warnings first. Bruce is a bad person and unreliable narrator in this verse and his PoV might be the skeeviest part of this.

Tim is upset with him.

It's obvious before the boy even gets upright. Despite the trembling, his posture is stiff. When he turns to face Bruce, leaning hard against the workbench, there's an unhappy crease to his brow. The set, straight line of his mouth forces heavy breaths through his noise instead. He isn't quite facing Bruce either, looking askance like he might lose hold on his temper if they face dead on.

He won't. Bruce knows. Bruce knew from the beginning, because he has never been the to type to take action without already knowing the resolution. This doesn't worry him.

Tim is perhaps the easiest of the boys to manage: He just wants to help.

Even in moments where Bruce asks a great deal of him. Even if it means prostrating himself before a man who's tried to kill him. Even just now, laid out boneless and pained and overstimulated, when Jason asked Bruce to finish, he felt Tim start clenching in tandem. Trying to help. A good boy. Like he wanted everything Bruce could give him.

Tim eyes the clothing at his ankles, legs shifting like he's debating how much weight they can hold.

“Let me,” Bruce says.

Tim's hands bunch into fists, jaw tensing a moment, but he doesn't argue. By the way he slumps further on the workbench as Bruce bends, his legs are exactly as shaky as expected. Unlikely to hold his balance well.

More importantly, doing it for him gives Bruce the perfect chance to begin his pretense of apology, where he quietly nudges Tim back to thinking of Bruce as a mentor and convinces him it was all necessary. It's an act Bruce has practiced well.

He crouches down, conjuring a wipe from his belt. The streaks of white dripping down Tim's thighs stir something delighted in Bruce's gut. Tim hates the uncomfortable stickiness though, and this is about mollifying Tim.

Bruce wipes them up without betraying his reluctance. He doesn't let his hands linger near the boy's puffy and abused entrance either, though he wants to. It would be easy to push.

No. Painstakingly professional in his clean-up. Gentle and caring when he tugs Tim's underwear and pants up. Perfectly sensitive to any soreness as he follows with the red leotard.

Tim takes the straps from him as soon as he can reach. The set of his face says a peeved, _I can do it myself_ , as he pulls the leotard back over his shoulders and knocks the cape into place. Bruce allows it for the moment. Sometimes getting it out helps mollify them.

It's certainly mollifying Jason.

He quickly retrieves the gloves and mask from the floor. Only as Bruce hands them back to Tim does he take his opening, stilling the boy's hands with one of his own.

“You did so well,” Bruce murmurs, lips against Tim's brow.

The slackening is slight but immediate. Bruce grants his words sparsely, so it only ever takes a few.

Jason—the Jason Bruce knew as a boy anyway—would want further compliments. Validation. Tim's brand of validation, though...

“Thank you,” Bruce adds, granting a gentle kiss over his hair.

Tim releases. When his eyes meet Bruce's as he pulls on the gloves, there's a slight curl to his lips of acknowledgment.

It takes Tim a minute to reapply the mask. His first attempt fails, and he has to wipe the wetness below his eyes before it will stick. Bruce wouldn't count on the weakened adhesive for a fight, but fortunately they only need to get home.

Tim straightens and looks up, Robin restored and ready to follow orders again. Bruce frowns at his shaky legs, and ducks to lift him.

“I can stand,” Tim protests hoarsely.

“Shh. Let me take care of you,” Bruce says.

It's practically cheating. The phrase always makes Tim hesitate and freeze up, still unsure of what it is to be taken care of.

It makes it easy for Bruce to define it however he likes.

He pulls Tim into a bridal carry and heads for the warehouse's exit, already calling the car. The ride home should be very peaceful. Any lingering resentment is already draining away. Tim's arms wrap around his neck.

“Good boy,” says Bruce.

-

He can't stop thinking about it.

Every time Robin swings on a line, cape fluttering around him, Bruce thinks about that cape shoved out of the way. Every time Robin spins with a kick, he thinks about his bare legs, wonders if there would be a convincing way to revert to the old uniform. Tim would do it if he asked. The rest of Gotham doesn't matter. But it would be hard to convince Alfred it was tactical decision.

Those thoughts aren't new, but remembering how the mask failed to stick over his tears every time Tim applies it before patrol is. Remembering how obediently Robin got to his knees for a near-stranger on Bruce's ask every time he crouches to examine evidence is.

When he lets Tim leave after patrol the next day without so much as a touch, he thinks about grabbing the boy while his back is turned and pressing him into a wall to hear him gasp.

When Tim's lips are wrapped around his cock the day after, he thinks about thrusting down his throat without warning and fucking it raw as Tim struggles.

When he strays back to his favorite spot on the third day, presses a kiss to the base of Tim's spine and thoroughly prepares him, he thinks about fucking him dry, or getting his fist inside, or keeping Tim on his cock for hours and seeing how many times he can come. Making him cry. Finding out what it would take to make him fight—not the little protests of when they first met, but _fight_.

Bruce is careful. Bruce is painstaking. Bruce knows how far he can push without breaking his control, knows how to pull it back when he nears the limits. He is sweet and gentle with Tim all week.

But he can't stop wondering if there's further he can push after all.

What Jason allowed him, merely by being present and commanding enough to soak up the blame, is too good to ignore.

Bruce can't stop thinking about how to get _him_ back either.

-

It's the kind of meeting that might be a coincidence were he not Batman.

Robin is working one of his own cases when Batman lands on the same rooftop as the Red Hood. Jason is planting cameras, aimed at the mob-owned apartment across the street. Prep work. He's not planning on fighting tonight. Good. Having to step in to stop him from killing would surely damage Bruce's chances.

Jason, so well trained, clocks him before he even hits the roof.

He's prickly. Accusatory. Outright cruel in points. The boy is trying so hard to act like the other night never happened, like it meant nothing to him, like his feelings haven't changed at all, his interest hasn't been snagged. But he's neither run from Bruce nor started swinging.

The sneering, far too casual comment on Robin's absence is just corroboration.

Tim spends less time at the manor than he did that first year, when his parents were constantly traveling or his father comatose. Ever since Jack woke up, he's made some attempt at being more present—with mixed results—and the new stepmother might be more attentive than both original parents combined.

Bruce thinks less time with Tim is his punishment for failing to save the Drakes as Batman.

Less time isn't no time, though. Bruce gets him from before patrol until he has to sneak back home. During the fake extracurricular he tells his father about. The occasional night when he makes up a sleepover with a friend.

And every time Jack and Dana go for a romantic getaway.

“He'll be staying at the manor all weekend,” Bruce replies evenly, not making the offer explicit, but not feigning an offhand tone either.

Jason scoffs, but doesn't refuse.

-

It's a preemptive act to take it extra slow on Friday night.

Tim is writhing and panting by the time Bruce has worked up to two fingers. He makes a beautiful picture, pale skin against Bruce's dark sheets, fully nude and spread out on his back in the center of the bed. Those delicate pink lips part around his breaths, eyes closed.

Bruce still has his sweatpants on. The tent over his crotch betrays how much he'd like to get them off, but he's careful not to rush. Slow is important here. Good for Tim. He has no suitable excuse to be cruel yet—but if he has done well, one is coming, and then he'll want to be able to point to this, prove it wasn't _his_ idea, wasn't _his_ desire.

“Good?” he asks, dragging his fingers over Tim's prostate, feeling the fluttering clench of reaction. Tim's raised knees shudder on either side of his shoulders.

Tim gasps in response, nodding with the back of his head pressed into the sheets.

“Use your words,” Bruce prompts, like it's a training exercise. Maybe it is.

“Yeah,” Tim breathes. “Yes.”

After another heaving breath, his eyes open, catching Bruce's gaze. Bruce smiles in response, mouthing at the inside of his thigh.

“Good boy.”

Tim shudders again, head dropping back.

A few more twists and splays of his fingers, and he wedges in a third.

“You're doing well,” Bruce says, as he twists them in small degrees, inching deeper. “That's three of my fingers in you. Can you feel them?”

On the last word, he spreads them, feeling the hole stretch to make room, watching the rim widen with his motions, like it was made for Bruce.

He nearly misses the nod this time, Tim's voice catching on moan.

Bruce pinches the inside of his thigh with his free hand, spread fingers rotating.

“Yes,” Tim gasps out. “I can—I can feel them.”

He makes another sound, like he has more to say but can't quite gather the words. Bruce eases up on the stretch, gently curling and twisting his fingers as he waits.

“I,” Tim manages, “'m getting better.”

Bruce smiles, hidden against a thigh, and gives another stroke over his prostate for that. Tim moans louder this time.

“You are,” Bruce says. When they first met, two fingers was stretch. He can double it now.

Tim was smaller then, though.

“All things with practice,” he continues, ignoring that fact. “Just like training. Maybe soon you'll be able to take my whole hand.”

The thought makes his cock twitch in his pants. He could do it now. Imagines holding Tim's hip down with a free hand, pressing his remaining fingers in over the boy's protests, up his hand, up to his wrist, curling to the full girth until his fist was splitting the boy open as he cried out—

No. Slow and gentle tonight, so long as it's just the two of them. He can't risk playing it rough.

Not yet, anyway.

So he holds back, though he can't resist letting his pinky press alongside the trio already in Tim. He can take four. Bruce has seen it.

Still, Tim wriggles when the fourth fingertip starts to breech. “It's too—”

Bruce shushes him. “I've got you.”

His fingers reluctantly pull out. Bruce watches the flushed hole flutter and take a extra second to close after them, and absolutely does not let himself imagine fucking Tim dry. More lube drizzles over his fingers, ensuring all are covered before returning.

The first two slip back in easily, testing the stretch. Bruce seeks out his prostate, brushing against it, light like it might be by mistake. Tim twitches and shifts, obviously frustrated but refusing to admit it.

After a minute of irregular brushes, he twists the fingers around, curling hard and focused, starling a cry from Tim. He repeats the motion, rubbing repeatedly against that bundle of nerves as Tim's long-since swollen cock twitches—and then retreating well before he can find any release.

Tim makes a sound that could only be described as a whine.

Bruce chuckles, curling the tips of his fingers so they snag on Tim's rim just to watch him squirm.

“Two,” he murmurs, keeping the tips inside. When he spreads them, there's a notable gap. Bruce nestles his third finger between, and then sheathes them in one quick motion. Tim moans. “Three.”

Fingers undulating, he pulls his gaze from the stretched hole around them to look up. Tim's eyes have slipped closed again, head tipped back. He skin is glistening, flushed down his chest.

“Look at me.”

Obedient as ever, blue eyes immediately snap open.

“Are you ready?”

Tim watches him but doesn't speak, silent but for his breaths.

Bruce doesn't chastise him for the lack of response. He didn't really care about the answer anyway.

He withdraws his fingers most of the way, just to the point where his shorter pinky can brush over the outside. Bruce slides the tip in an arc around Tim's rim, feeling every twitching muscle before moving it into position. He pulls his fingers together tight as they can get, and slowly presses in.

“Four.”

Tim has kept his head up, eyes still on Bruce.

“Very good,” Bruce adds.

He keeps that languid pace all the way in, until Tim is squeezing vice-like around the base of his fingers, then drags just as slowly out. As his fingers leisurely fuck in and out, Bruce lets his other hand roam, smoothing up Tim's side, down over his abs, skirting around his cock into the crease of his thigh.

Tim breaks eye contact after a few strokes. A few more, and his twitches turn to outright squirming.

“Need something?” Bruce asks placidly, lowering his head.

Tim _hmph_ s at him, blowing hair off his forehead.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Bruce says into the crease between thigh and hip.

“I want,” Tim starts, twisting his head to the side in embarrassment. His voice continues muffled, “I want to come.”

“Hm. That seems pretty self-centered.”

“Bruce,” he complains.

“Yes?”

Tim sighs loudly. His head straightens, instinctively knowing Bruce wants him to make eye contact and speak. The color in his cheeks still surprises and endears Bruce—that he can do all this, but blush to say it out loud.

“Bruce,” he says, worrying his lip, “...fuck me?”

Bruce slowly shifts back to his knees.

“Please?” Tim adds, tentative.

He wasn't even going to ask for the addition, but it gives him a swell of pleasure to hear. Tim, always trying to anticipate his needs. His good, obedient boy.

He lets his fingers slip out to shuck his pants, and leans up. Tim turns into the offered kiss, one hand grabbing Bruce's arm where it plants beside him.

“Or, I mean, you could just jack me off too,” Tim says when they part.

Bruce rolls his eyes against the boy's temple. Teenagers.

“Turn over.”

Tim does, wriggling around in the small space Bruce leaves between his bulk and the sheets. When he's flipped onto his stomach, hands beside his head, Bruce grants a squeeze to the shoulder before trailing his hand down. He slicks himself up, parting Tim's ass to watch the hole twitch. That's _his_.

Bruce groans as he presses in. It's so smooth after all his prep, sheathing himself in one go. Tim wriggling only helps, canting his hips up, trying to find the right angle. His head twists to the side so he can see Bruce.

“Good,” Bruce hums.

Tim squeezes around him.

He sets a steady pace, thrusting into that tight body. He completely covers Tim, bigger than him in every dimension. The boy still has a bit of growing to do, but Bruce imagines he'll remain on the short side. Always small and tight.

Tim is trying to compliment the rhythm, but there's only so much he can do flat on the bed. After a minute, Bruce presses in fully, and tugs his hips up until he's propped on his knees.

There. When he resumes moving, Tim moves with him, hips thrusting in tandem. Bruce's hands slip under his chest, pinching at his nipples as he speeds up, avoiding every spot Tim wants him.

“Please,” Tim says after a minute, muffled in the pillow.

“Please what?”

“Bruce, please,” Tim slurs.

Bruce groans and thrusts harder, hands gripping Tim's hips instead. He still avoids that angle he knows Tim wants.

“So good for me,” Bruce rumbles. “So tight.”

Tim whimpers. His hands flex beside his head, but he doesn't move them down, doesn't try to take what he needs without Bruce's permission.

“Perfect,” he breathes. “Take whatever I give you. You were made for this. _Mine_.”

A moan from the boy beneath him when he angles his hips just right for a single thrust, before returning to his rhythm.

“You like that,” Bruce says, “like being mine.”

On impulse, he grabs the boy's hair, turning his head to push him face first into the mattress. His hips snap harder, harder than Tim can compensate for, until Bruce is single-handedly driving the rhythm without him. Like the muffle of the pillow has given him permission, Tim's noises get louder and constant. Bruce chooses to believe it's his words.

“You like this. Like taking what I give you. Want it. _Begging_ for it. Begging me to fuck you.”

He's close. Why does he ever deny himself this? Make pointless condolences? He should be able to fuck Tim until he cries every time he wants to.

“So good,” Bruce pants. “Squeeze for me.”

And Tim does, clenching in time with his thrusts. So _obedient_ , wanting to help, _wanting_ what Bruce gives him, until with a shuddering groan Bruce slams himself in and comes. Fills him up.

He slumps over Tim, just breathing for a moment.

Tim is still panting, squirming. Unsatisfied. Worried, perhaps, that he'll stay like that, though Bruce isn't done yet. Bruce shushes him, smoothing hands down his sides.

He pulls out, dribbling come. Bruce gathers it off his softening cock, wipes up the line that drips out of Tim, and presses it all back inside.

“Keep that in,” he murmurs.

Tim's back arches further, hips tilting up. It takes a few more wipes to ensure it all goes back in his clenching hole, but after a moment Bruce is satisfied.

Tim whimpers when he straightens up, pulling away from that wonderful skin-to-skin contact. The air is much chillier where they were pressed together a moment ago.

“Wait,” Tim protests, muffled. He's kept his head down. “Don't—”

“Shh. Good boy. Don't worry.”

Bruce keeps a hand on the small of his back as he shifts towards the bedside table. He's left everything perfectly prepared there, though innocuous to Tim's eyes. He taps the button of the tablet placed atop as he slides open the drawer. The camera feeds around the manor immediately pop up.

A shadowed figure is climbing the back wall.

Excitement stirs in Bruce's gut, though he just got off. He quickly estimates how long he has.

He glances to Tim, ensuring the boy's face is still buried before pulling the toy out of the very front of the drawer. He takes the tablet as well.

“Close your eyes,” Bruce says. He can't actually see Tim's face to check if he already is, but it's a good safeguard. When he shifts back behind Tim, Bruce makes sure to set the tablet on the bed lightly enough that he won't notice.

Tim hasn't moved, even though his cock is red and dripping. Not a single drop of come has escaped his ass.

“Very good,” Bruce says, pressing the tip of the plug against him. It's matte black, and enormous. Bigger than Bruce.

He looks at the tablet screen as he presses it in. Tim moans. The shadowed figure reaches the wall of the manor.

“This is the biggest thing you've taken,” Bruce tells Tim, though his eyes remain locked on the camera feed.

He inches the plug deeper in short thrusts. Perhaps he should have slicked it up, but he filled the boy plenty with slick and come. This will hardly be his most uncomfortable moment tonight anyway.

He jabs right against the boy's prostate, giving him that perfect stimulation he denied earlier. Bruce thrusts sharp and repeatedly against it.

“Does it feel good?”

Tim is too busy moaning to respond.

The man outside makes quick work of the window, disabling the alarm with a rare knowledge of its workings. Bruce tears his eyes away from the screen.

He tugs the toy partway out, just to see the obscene stretch of Tim's rim around the widest part of it. Anticipation and imagination pull a moan out of Bruce, and he thrusts it back in. Right against those nerves, again and again, more stimulation than Tim can take.

“You can come now,” Bruce tells him.

Tim's moans reach a peak in pitch and volume, and he comes over the sheets, shaking.

Bruce sinks the toy all the way in, keeping his seed locked inside, and lets Tim sag onto the mattress. As he catches his breath, Bruce takes one last glance at the tablet, and then leans to slide it silently under the bed.

“Good boy,” Bruce says, though he's hardly even thinking about Tim.

He pulls Tim up with him, moving to sit against the headboard. Tim is a heater against him, pink and sweaty. He curls into Bruce's side with the sleepiness of satisfaction. When he looks up, he's smiling, and Bruce grants him a kiss. Tim is loose and open, kissing back with enthusiasm if little energy.

Bruce lets Tim drop his head into his shoulder when they part, wrapping an arm around his torso. His hand smooths Tim's side.

A minute later, the door opens.


End file.
